


but you never go away

by wincestgoddess



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Hallucination Dean, M/M, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Sam Winchester-centric, Series Finale, Stanford Era (Supernatural), different timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28603857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestgoddess/pseuds/wincestgoddess
Summary: Sam's had to spend his fair share of Dean's birthdays alone.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	but you never go away

**Author's Note:**

> the lyrics throughout the story are from the song "lovely" by Billie Eilish. Give it a listen if you haven't, makes the fic all the more heartbreaking 🥺

_walking out of town_

_looking for a better place_

Since that fateful night Sam ditched his family for Stanford, he didn’t once regret his decision. He didn’t look back. He didn’t bring himself to take one last look at the insignificant motel room. He sure as hell quieted his thundering mind and his cracking heart in favor of his blooming hope at a new life without monsters. 

He paid no mind to his soul’s lament as it desperately reached for its other half; still in that motel room and unaware as Sam made his departure.

He doesn’t regret it months later, when he can finally go to sleep unafraid of the dark, knowing that come morning, his only worry will be midterms. 

The hurt heals a little bit more the day Jessica moves in with him. He can curl up at night, press his chest to her warm back and not think of someone else’s warm back, one that was littered with freckles and bite marks, courtesy of Sam. He doesn’t think about them once. 

For months everything seems to be falling into place. Months of freedom, of Californian sun on his skin and unapologetically being who he’s always wanted to be: not a hunter but a normal kid (man now) living his dream; having friends and an amazing girlfriend. 

November 2nd, he starts getting antsy. He’s more than aware of the date but even when he gets the inevitable pang that always accompanies thoughts of his mother, there’s more to it than that. It’s something that’s made its way under his skin, something that’s settled and refuses to leave and it makes him dizzy, makes Sam’s breath catch. 

He’s never been one to celebrate Christmas, so by the time December rolls around, he’s all but ignored the thrumming through his veins, nestling a place in his heart. He ignores it up until Jess and him exchange presents, until a whispered echo of ‘I love it, Sam. Thank you’ reaches his ears and he looks down to find Jessica’s not wearing an amulet. 

Striped carnations decorate the table where their friends gather for the feast. 

Sam looks out the snowy window and wonders if it’s snowing too wherever he might be. 

_something’s on my mind_

_always in my headspace_

January doesn’t come and go the way Sam would’ve hoped. January is an avalanche waiting to wreak havoc on his system. First, it’s his grades slipping and thus putting his scholarship at stake; after that, his mood follows, dropping lower than his friends have ever seen. Jess asks him to take better care of himself, he’s worrying her, please.

It’s on January 24th that Jessica finds him outside their dorm, sitting on the steps with his face between his knees. She calls his name but Sam doesn’t look up from the brightly lit screen of his phone, only one contact there. The only one that matters. The one he should call.

“Sam?”

Her voice is underwater, her voice is an annoying and high-pitched ringing in Sam’s ears and for a second he wishes he could swipe it away. Swipe her away. Blonde hair and green eyes. No freckles lead down her back. Not like his. 

“Dean.”

He chokes on the acid of his name and he knows, he _knows_ he doesn’t deserve to utter such a beautiful word; a word he gave up on long ago. He walked out on that name. He stomped all over both of their hearts without so much as a backward glance. 

A hundred rearview mirrors were granted and Sam used none of them. 

Five-year-old Sam wants to call; wants the Spiderman band-aids and chicken noodle soup, he wants the lullabies and knight stories Dean would patiently read to him. 

Nine-year-old Sam is begging him to press “call” and listen to Dean’s soothing voice, feel the warmth of his palm on the small of his back as he promises fervently to never let a monster get its hands on Sam. He’s there to make the nightmares of this new life go away.

Sixteen-year-old Sam is pounding in his head, calling him an idiot for ever walking away from the best thing they’ve ever had. He’s mad and spiteful and he wants to crawl into his brother’s space, wants to kiss him senseless like he did that first time, wants to discover weak spots all over again and use a bit too much teeth only for Dean to gently guide him.

The current and broken version of Sam wants it all. He too aches for the comfort and the breathy exhales in darkened motel rooms. He wants to cling to the velvety drawl of his big brother, the one that was the subject of many fantasies and many lonely nights before he found Jess, the one Sam wasn’t afraid to use as lube as he took himself in his hand, threw his head back and let his brain wander off to better times.

He wants to call so badly. But he’s afraid. Sam’s scared of rejection, of anger and the betrayal he’s sure he will hear in Dean’s tone if by some miracle his brother picks up. 

There’s a part of him that’s scared of his own weakness, too. Because that buried part of Sam knows if he hears that one word fall from Dean’s lips, it knows that his resolve will break and Sam will leave it all behind to go back. 

Stanford, Jess, normalcy... none of them would matter anymore compared to Sam’s burning love. 

After a few futile attempts on Jessica’s part to break Sam out his trance, she sighs and sits on the steps next to him instead, resting her head on his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his hair.

“We can stay here a while, then. I’m here when you’re good to go back inside, baby.”

Not so long ago, Sam hadn’t been just ‘baby’. He’d been ‘baby boy’ and ‘Sammy’. He’d been a little brother and a lover. A constant in someone else’s life and a lifeline, too. Not long ago, Sam had been brimming with happiness. 

When did it shatter? When was it not enough? When was _Dean_ not enough? 

Choking down a sob, Sam tears the tender flesh of his lower lip with his teeth until it bleeds and stings. A delicate hand reaches for his own and squeezes. No calluses or bruised knuckles. Sam resists the urge to let go and hold onto the phone for dear life instead. 

It’s Dean’s first birthday without Sam. 

And whilst the younger sibling torments himself, debating whether he should call or let it rest; remembering past celebrations, the shared smiles and laughter and gifts in the form of kisses and worship of a strong body; there is someone else reminiscing too.

Miles away in Wichita, the older sibling stares forlornly, and maybe a tad desperately at his phone. Resignation isn’t far behind; it’s been there spreading like a plague all over his body ever since Sam left. And still, today, Dean dares to hope. 

Just one call. One simple word. One simple phrase, just enough to let Dean know that Sam still cares, if only a little. He misses Dean and he thinks of him. Please, let him know he hasn’t been burned off his memory, completely forgotten and erased like the worthless piece of trash he feels like. The _unworthy_ piece of trash. 

Dean holds out hope for longer than he wants. When the clock strikes twelve there’s no denying the facts any longer though: Sam doesn’t care. 

Shoulders slumping, Dean fights back the tears pooling in his eyes with a long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. In his shitty motel room, he toasts to an empty room and laughs dryly. 

“Happy birthday to me.” 

* * *

_oh, I hope someday I’ll make it out of here_

_even if it takes all night or a hundred years_

Trapped in a cycle of having to relive his brother’s death in numerous and sometimes ridiculous deaths, only to then be thrown into another, more painful and monotonous cycle of having to learn how to live without Dean has been Sam’s life for months now.

Calling it an ‘adjustment’ would feel like a slap in the face. Sam’s not adjusting. He’s not _dealing._ Worst of all, he’s not living. He’s existing, floating around space and time pointlessly, taking up valuable air and resources that could be better suited for someone motivated to keep going on. 

He misses Dean like crazy. Every cell of his organism would’ve turned against him already if not for his heart trumping them; and his heart is dead set on catching the Trickster and getting his brother back. 

His heart doesn’t take away the hurt though. If anything, it fans the fire, it sends electric shocks through his brain, sparking up memories as means of motivation perhaps. Or maybe as means of torture. Sam can’t differentiate anymore. The lines have started to blur together and he’s too tired to try and decipher them anymore. 

Sleep, food, pain; they’re all the same. All routines that have lost their meaning. Every bite of food reminds him of tacos that tasted funny or sausages that were supposed to be a defiance in the goddamn time loop they’d been trapped. Every night in bed, he reaches for a body that’s not there anymore and he swears his thighs ache to be pulled apart; his scalp tingles from the phantom pain of someone tugging on it. 

His lips mourn the loss of Dean, too. 

And the physical pain of hunts doesn’t even work anymore to overpower the emotional wound that’s not festering anymore, it is now rotten and seeping pus. It spreads throughout his body; a body that distinctly remembers feeling like this once or twice in Stanford. 

It’s the same body that’s tried to prepare itself this time. This version of Sam doesn’t have the luxury of letting the days pass him because he’s too busy enjoying the college life. He doesn’t get the unknown itch and trepidation that accompanied Dean’s birthday when he was away because this Sam counts the days until he can get his hands on the son of a bitch that took away the light of his life, sticking him in a dark, lonely basement. 

He prepares for the coming and passing of January 24th, knowing that the trail keeps fading even as he keeps searching. He knows it will be another lonely birthday and he thinks he’s made peace with that, he can bear it (he can’t, they’re all lies, Sam’s been lying to himself ever since Dean was shot right in front of him and he denied Bobby’s concerned questions because he _did_ want to die and be with his brother).

It doesn’t matter how hard Sam mentally prepares himself or the leads he’s planning on following that day because as soon as he wakes up his feet turn to lead. He’s rooted to the bed, blinking up at the ceiling of the motel room with a pounding heart that waits for ‘Heat of the Moment’ to begin. Slowly, he turns his head and is unsurprisingly met with an empty bed. 

It stabs through the tiny shimmer of hope that had started to form around his cracked heart, tried to worm its way inside but was brutally murdered before it could even begin. 

Part of him wants to bury his head under the covers, shut the world out and pretend today’s not happening. 

But everything seems to remind him of Dean. The cotton sheets of the bed where Dean pushed him down with a flirty little smirk and a remark about wanting to find Sam’s mystery spot; the dirty bathroom sink he stared into endlessly as his brother spit out toothpaste trying to solve the riddle of the time loop; the leads, they only serve to remind him why he’s following them. 

So, which one’s worse? The laughter, the smiles and the touching? Or the grief, the loss and the emptiness? Don’t they all have the same conclusion? Dean’s _gone._ It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s gone and Sam swore after Stanford, it’d never happen again, that he’d never feel this way again, but here he is in bed, feeling like the oxygen in his lungs is not enough and maybe if he asphyxiates as a result, maybe he’d be lucky enough to die and join him wherever he is---

“Geez, your thoughts have turned way darker since I’ve been gone.”

Sam’s eyes snap open. The blinds are drawn, obstructing any ray of pesky light that might want to bother him so it doesn’t take him time to adjust to the shadow perched on the edge of his bed. It’s a shadow he hasn’t seen in months. 

Two options here; either it’s some sort of creature here to mock his pain (and if it is, this will be the last mistake of its pathetic life) or it’s actually his brother. 

Maybe… maybe the Trickster’s gotten tired of Sam tailing him, maybe he took pity on the mess he’s become and granted him this one act of mercy. Sam will never go after him again if that’s the case. 

“Hey, where’s the pie? Seriously, it’s my birthday and you didn’t get me any? I’m disappointed in you, Sammy boy.”

“Are you real?”

Sam’s voice cracks.

The smart thing here would be to reach for the holy water and the knife, press him up against the wall and demand answers because this could very well be a demon trying to take advantage of Sam in his extremely vulnerable state. And fuck, why today of all days? When he could’ve killed the son of a bitch in seconds any other day. 

Dean grins, relaxed and easy. 

“Wanna come and find out?”

_‘Yes’,_ the word comes from deep within and Sam swears he can feel the tug of his heart, soul and body all at once. They all want to try and touch Dean, see if he’s real and crush him between his arms, kiss him like he’s lived a lifetime without him already because in a sense he has. 

Sam throws the covers away and follows his heart instead of his instinct and he’s sure he’ll come to regret it later, but he can’t even bring himself to think about future consequences as he reaches out, breath shaking and hands trembling. 

His hand goes right through Dean’s shoulder.

An unbidden choked sound falls from his lips. He stares at his still trembling hand as it lands on the bed and pulls away like he’s been burned when not-Dean tries to reach out.

“You’re not real. Fuck, now I’ve really lost it.”

“Would’ve preferred if I was a demon? A shifter?”

“I’d feel saner.”

“Yeah, refusing to change motels in five months is really sane. When are you hitting the road, man?”

“I have. I do. I just… I always come back here.”

“Well, that’s depressing.”

“Why am I even arguing with you?” Sam laughs wryly, runs his fingers through his hair and stares up in resignation at the ceiling. “You’re not real.”

“Realest you’ve had in months.”

Silence fills the room. For a millisecond, Sam’s determined to follow his original plan, to follow a path and leave this room behind if it means he won’t see the hallucination of his brother on this forsaken day. 

“Sammy.”

“...”

“Baby boy.”

“Don’t.”

_need a place to hide but I can’t find one near_

_wanna feel alive, outside I can’t fight my fear_

Warm breath nuzzles behind his ear and arms wrap around his middle and Sam wants to sink into the embrace but he knows if he _tries_ again, this could all fade. 

“You forgot the pie again, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, lets his lips ghost over the shell of Sam’s ear. 

It feels real. 

“I won’t forget it next time, De. I promise. Just come back. Please.”

No answer is given and perhaps no answer is needed. Just the sweet brush of lips behind his ear, on the nape of his neck and his temple. Just arms providing the illusory comfort Sam’s been missing in his drought. 

After days on end of simply following the motions, of letting himself become a whole new person, slide into this skin of robotic Sam; it’s here in the arms of a familiar stranger product of his broken mind that Sam lets himself cry. 

Dean’s not there the next day. 

* * *

Sam’s legs don’t work like they used to before. 

His joints creak and his knees hurt if he stands up for too long. He’s hardly out of shape; didn’t stop working out once even when he hung his hunting hat years ago, but age still takes a toll on the ex-hunter. 

None of this, nor his son’s vocal concern stop Sam from taking a walk to the nearest bakery to pick up the pie he’d placed an order for days before. None of that bought store, artificial crap either. Fresh and homemade pie. Flaky and warm.

The pie isn’t the problem, it’s the walk that Dean Jr. thinks it’s unnecessary on his ‘old man bones’. Sam refuses to drive. There is only one car he wants to get into today and she’s waiting patiently, never rushing him. Always a quiet comfort for whenever he needs. 

He’s craving for a quiet, peaceful time. Now that he _finally_ feels ready to do this the right way, Sam wants it to be just him and the Impala. He loves his son and even included him in a few of the first celebrations he had for his brother early on, but it’s been years now and it’s taken this long for the hole in his soul to stop burning so painfully, to give him room to just breathe and do something in Dean’s name the way he would’ve wanted him to.

_‘You and me against the world, man.’_

So, feeling utterly ridiculous, he gets dressed in his best flannel, fondly remembering how a certain jerk ages ago had leered and complimented it on making his eyes stand out, right before taking Sam to bed. 

He assures his son for the fifth time that day that he’s fine and waves goodbye when he sets off to see his friends. He grabs the green cooler, heavy with a couple of cold ones; grabs the pie too and heads to see Dean’s girl in the garage. 

She’s as sleek and beautiful as ever. January weather makes it suitable for Sam to turn the heat on and his knees appreciate the reprieve, but it’s his nostalgia that basks in the rattle of the Legos even more. 

_isn’t it lovely, all alone?_

_heart made of glass my mind of stone_

The driver’s seat remains empty. Sam toasts with a cold beer. And he tries, he tries his hardest to focus on the present and the now, focus on the fact that he’s nearing death with every day that passes. He doesn’t mean for it to be a comforting fact but Dean Jr’s old enough to take care of himself now and Sam? Sam’s bone-deep tired. 

He kept his promise. He lived, he stuck it out, he got married and will leave behind a legacy. He took care of Dean’s wheels even when 36-year-old Sam, full of grief and with a freshly dead brother, had wanted to smash the car, just to see if Dean would make good on his promise and come back to haunt him.

What’s left but to celebrate what he can and wait for the sweet release of death? 

Seeing Dean again. 

“Can’t believe I’ve celebrated so many of your birthdays without you,” he muses out loud.

“At least you can’t accuse me of forgetting the pie this time. Only the best for you.”

Chuckling softly, Sam places a single candle on the pie. He bites down hard on his lower lip, pushes his greying hair out of his eyes with a frail, big hand. The tears come faster this time. Maybe it’s the age, maybe it’s the occasion; either way Sam can’t stop the first tear that falls. 

Dean would call him an old sap and roll his eyes. He would steal Sam’s strawberry from his plate and probably smear some cream on his nose to cheer him up while simultaneously annoying him at the same time. It was always a talent of his brother, after all.

Dean would kiss him. Chapped or cracked, wet or soft, it wouldn’t matter, Dean’s lips would inch closer to his and capture them in the sweetest of kisses. Sweeter than pie; and with the fizzing of the beer on their lips, Sam’s aged body would _soar._ Dean would make him feel young again, never mind that both of them would be a couple of old farts. 

_tear me to pieces, skin to bone_

“Happy birthday, Dean.” 

Lighting the candle, he wipes away the moisture of his cheeks. He turns his head to the driver’s seat and pictures his brother there. Smiling, playful and teasing. Happy 

They’d be happy. Because they always were with each other, no matter how bad it got.

“I miss you, jerk. But… I know I’ll be with you soon.”

He blows out the candle and for once, doesn’t wish he could hallucinate him again like he once did years ago. Sam’s made peace now.

It’s the last birthday Sam will celebrate. 

It’s the last time he’ll feel lonely on this Earth. 

Because time for him blurs and passes like lightning and the next time he’s lucid enough to make out his surroundings, it’s his son that he sees, smiling sadly down at him and holding his hand. His thumb brushes gently over Dean’s clock. There’s a faint beep. 

Sam barely feels the drugs or the dull pain, or the IV on his arm. More than anything, he feels sleepy and peaceful. It would be so easy to let himself fall.

“It's okay, Dad. You can go now.”

_‘You can go now, Dean’._

Sam lets himself fall into the darkness.

The next time he awakes, he’s staring directly into green eyes. 

“Hey, Sammy.”

_hello, welcome home_


End file.
